The Difference
by Indigo Mimi
Summary: Mark-fic. Our filmmaker may not be so lonely anymore, but his lover is hiding something. More to come. (It's my first Rent-fic, so please be kind in your bashings.)


"What? I can't hear you!" Mark, attempting to decipher Maureen's garbled rhetoric, was growing frustrated with Passionette. Between the nearly opaque wall of smoke, the amateur bartender, and the raucous din that prevented anyone from hearing anything, he'd made a mental note to himself: from now on, he should definitely avoid the grand opening of any club, regardless of what was going on. Under normal circumstances, of course, he would never have been spending his Saturday night inside this packed, sticky building, but Roger's band had landed a gig, and would be the first to play that evening. 'Which means we can get the hell out of here sooner,' Mark thought wryly. 'Mimi's up by the stage, but I wonder how Collins got out of this. Wait. Because he's Collins.' He sighed, turning back to Maureen. "Run that by me again, will you?" 

"I said she's really cute!" Maureen shouted, tilting her head to indicate a girl sitting along the back wall. As Maureen rolled her eyes at Mark's shrug and turned back to face the stage, she caught Joanne looking slightly irritated. "For Mark, Pookie. You're *so* much cuter than she is," she added hastily.

Mark was, as per usual, reluctant to take anything Maureen offered to him. But after throwing the mysterious woman a casual glance to appease his ex-girlfriend, he found that his eyes were helplessly gravitating toward her. She *was* cute; overtly beautiful, in fact. Although people were crammed in around her, she appeared to have an aura of light, as if she were somehow invincible. 

He shook the feelings off. 'What aura? This is New York; millions of pretty girls live here. And even if by some miracle she was a wonderful person, and straight, *and* single, I'm an dorky unsuccessful filmmaker, as I think I'm told seven hundred times a day... mostly by myself. Not quite the level of anyone except... well, dorky unsuccessful filmmakers that happen to be female."

But his thoughts were interrupted by the drunken roar of the crowd as Roger and his bandmates appeared on the stage. Not that he was watching them; he'd filmed so many rehearsals and had heard the songs so many times in so many stages, he could have probably stepped in for any one of them. His eyes were on *her*. He saw her pensive expression fade into a subdued joy as the band found their instruments and the sound of hard rock permeated throughout the club. He knew nothing about her, and yet he loved her entirely. He loved her hands and their chipped blue nail polish as she unconsciously tucked her shoulder-length dark hair behind an ear well dotted with small silver studs. He loved her softly blinking pale eyes, the exact color of which he was unable to make out in the dim lighting, neatly enhanced with what he felt was the perfect amount of makeup. He loved the glimmer of a smile which rested on her painted lips as she intently watched the musicians perform... especially that. Mark could feel his heart leap into his throat, beating wildly. He knew nothing other than that he was in a trace under her unknowing power, and that he wanted... needed to remain hypnotized by her every day for the rest of his life.

The next thing he knew, he was being uncomfortably yanked into a standing position and dragged in that direction... closer to the girl. "Maureen, what are you doing? Let me go." He struggled to escape from her grasp, but she was determined, and once Maureen hit the stage of determination, she was unstoppable.

"You've been staring at her all night, Cohen. Face your fears and talk to her!" When Mark didn't respond, Maureen sighed overdramatically. "Fine. I see I have my work cut out for me." 

She continued dragging Mark until they reached the young woman, who was still seated sedately as the multitudes of people shoved their way to the bar. He, of course, was protesting all the way, but Maureen would have none of it. "Hey, you. This guy thinks you're hot."

Mark immediately turned red, much to the girl's amusement. "Welcome back to seventh grade," she remarked kindly. "I'm Lianne Donovan... you're not so bad yourself, you know." She extended a hand, which Mark's shaking sweaty fingers were somehow able to grasp.

He smiled as well. "Mark Cohen. Nice to meet you."

"Likewise. Did you want to get out of here?" Lianne asked, gesturing toward the door. 

Mark nodded. "Yeah, yeah. The band that just played... um, the lead singer is my best friend. Otherwise, I would never have been here." He wanted to get the fact that he wasn't at all a club person squared away; the sooner Lianne realized he wasn't good enough for her, the better, for both involved parties.

"I wouldn't either. I just needed to cool down after a rough time at work, and this was here," she remarked as they struggled to get to the door. Standing, Lianne was a head shorter than Mark, and she had a delicate, petite body. Oddly enough, Maureen and Joanne had vanished. 

"What do you do?"

"I'm a dancer." Lianne immediately realized the ambiguity of her statement when she saw Mark's face, and continued. "Not that kind of dancer. I've been training since I was three, and my dream is to start a contemporary ballet company. But since dreaming doesn't pay the bills, I teach with a friend at his CAP21 studio. And some of the prima donnas we get in there, regardless of gender, consider themselves the most marvelous dancers alive when they really have no skill. Trying to humble them and teach the rest of the class takes a lot out of you."

They exited Passionette and began walking down the street together. Mark, at a lack of words, stuttered, "Um, yeah. M-money can be a problem." 

Lianne, growing curious and noticing Mark's discomfort, decided to change the topic to something more familiar to him. "Tell me about yourself."

Mark was grateful for her intuition. "Well, I'm 26; from Scarsdale originally. I went to Brown, and it killed my mother when I chose to major in English instead of pre-med, because of this stereotypical need for Jewish doctors. I graduated, my heart told me to move to New York and become a filmmaker, and I listened. And now I have no money, no success, and no girlfriend. The end." He chuckled a bit at the thought that he was relaying emotions he himself was unable to face to a total stranger.

"But you're happy?"

"Yeah, as happy as anyone could be." He shrugged.

"I'd eventually like to go to college, but by the time I get my dance career off the ground, *if* that actually happens, I'll be too old."

"Oh come on, you're never too old to learn more!"

"Don't you hit me with clichés, you hear?"

Mark chuckled. "How old *are* you, anyway? You look so..."

"Young? I guess I fit the old feminine-athletic stereotype. You know, short and thin and looking ten years old." Lianne interjected. "I'm twenty-two. I'll probably get carded until I'm about sixty."

They both laughed, and Lianne suddenly stopped walking. Mark was unsure of why until he noticed the subway station.

"This is me," she said.

"The L line?"

"Yeah. I'm down in Brooklyn; Bedford Ave is right across the water, and the price is right. It's the first time in awhile that I can remember living in one place for more than three months." Lianne was growing distant as she spoke, and she almost visibly shook it off, staring into Mark's eyes for what felt like an hour to both of them. "Well, goodnight." She started toward the steps to the subway.

"Wait!" Mark blurted out. "Can I see you again?" 

With little hesitation, Lianne pulled a pen from her black canvas purse, turned his hand over, and printed several digits on his palm. 

"Now we're *really* back in seventh grade." She smiled warmly, and her grin combined with her touch sent the filmmaker reeling. "I'll see you soon, Mark Cohen." Lianne stepped closer, and her lips gently brushed across his. And as quickly as she broke the kiss, she was gone.

The shaken young man walked back to the loft, his thoughts filled with Lianne and the enchanting secrecy that surrounded her. Upon entering the still, silent apartment, which was not so long ago vibrant with life, he numbly closed the door and gazed around the room. 

"Pan across my life in a nutshell." He spoke as if he were narrating for the camera, but his beloved 16-millimeter was in the other room. "Roger and Mimi and downstairs... happy. Maureen and Joanne are uptown... happy. Collins is probably raising hell somewhere, remembering Angel... happy. And I'm the only one still here... but maybe not for too much longer."

He picked up a pen that had been lying on the floor, and neatly copied the phone number written on his hand onto a nearby piece of paper. Then he sprawled across the couch and cried... for the joy and sorrow of his past, and that which was yet to come. 


End file.
